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John opens the silverware drawer to find all the spoons missing. He stares at the neat rectangular slot where the spoons should be, then turns to where Sherlock huddles in the armchair, avidly watching a nature documentary.
“Sherlock?” Sherlock tucks his chin into his knees and grunts.
Sherlock really would try the patience of a saint, wouldn’t he. “Is this for an experiment?” John asks, walking over to where Sherlock perches, eyes glued to the antics of tigers. John does a double take. Tigers?
“Accidental Spill,” Sherlock enunciates. “Currently in the sink.”
John stops, counts to ten, decides that no, he really doesn’t want to know after all, and sits down on the sofa.
On the telly screen, a confused, possibly drugged, adolescent tiger slinks across artificial zoo grass and concrete as it stalks a paper mache barrel. “This for a case?” John asks. Sherlock nods.
Sherlock swings himself off the armchair and crouches on the floor. He copies the tigers body language in a wobbly crawl across the living room floor. John bites his fist, stifling his laughter.
“Smuggling ring,” Sherlock says. “Need to be prepared for my disguise.”
John shakes his head. “Well then.” John pushes himself off the sofa and goes to see if the forks have survived as well. ”I’m sure you’ll make a very fine beast.”